Logs:Exactly What I Need
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| RL Date: 16 May, 2009 |
| Who: Madilla, Whitchek |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Whitchek stumbles upon Madilla at the Nighthearth, late in the evening. They (briefly) hold hands - positively scandalous! |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 10, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life. Given the relative lateness of the hour, it being only about an hour before midnight, it's unusual to find Madilla still here in the nighthearth. She's not quite alone, though the auntie by the fire is asleep, and the couple going googley eyed over each other are, hand in hand, making for the exit. The healer herself is entrenched in her books, which perhaps explains her continued presence, the flicking of pages marking the only real sound aside from the nearby crackle of the fire. She turns a page, reaches for her mug, holds the mug but doesn't drink, and then sets it down again. Then, she reaches for her pen. Even now, this is not an hour that usually sees Whitchek out and about. No, he ought to be snug in his bunk by now, ready for another new day to come early. But instead, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, he's making for that pot of simmering stew, even if it probably is well past its prime at this point in the night. Hard not to spot Madilla. Hard not to spot the little smile that hits his face when he does. He does at least procure food first, then sneaks up behind her--well, walks, it's not really sneaking if you don't attempt to hide--and does a light tap on her shoulder. See, he can touch her now. "Hard at work?" Madilla starts, which is probably predictable, swinging her head around fast enough that her hair bounces over her shoulder madly. The words themselves are not enough to allow her to register who it is, evidently, not after having been so deeply engrossed, but as her eyes light upon Whitchek, the surprise fades into a genuine smile. "I... yes. But I suspect it's later than I thought, if it's this quiet in here now. Are you well, Whitchek? Will you join me? I should probably stop staring at them, anyway." "Absolutely," Whitchek is only too ready to agree, sliding the dish of stew onto the table next to her study materials and himself into the nearest chair. The stew does not bear close inspection, which might explain why he's so eager not to pay attention to it. "I wasn't expecting to see you up. Just... hungry. Hard to sleep on an empty stomach. Here, I missed you at dinner, and this makes up for it wonderfully." Madilla draws her books in, stacking one atop the bother to create more space upon the table as Whitchek sits, then rests her twined fingers atop the lot of them. "I shouldn't be up," she agrees, cheerfully enough, with a sweeping gaze of the room that lasts only a few seconds, confirming the presumed lateness. "But I got caught up. We had a patient, earlier, which kept me late for dinner," she sounds apologetic, "And then, I really wanted to look some things up... It is good to see you, now." She does look happy. A bite of the stew confirms that no, it's really not worth attention, but Whitchek is obviously genuinely hungry. "Can't hurt every now and then, I suppose. And studying! Studying is very important. After all, you study, and then you get promoted, and then..." Dot-dot-dot, fill in the blank. "Anyway, it's just as well. There was unpleasantness at supper." Then suddenly, a more serious tone. "I can't be blamed for wanting to spare you unpleasantness, can I?" "/Eventually/ you get promoted," puts in Madilla, softly, though the tip of her head marks it as agreement more than anything. Her fingers twist about each other, but still, as he mentions the unpleasantness. "I... no, I don't think so? Which is to say, I can handle unpleasant things, because I have to be able to, but it's understandable, to not want them inflicted on another. It wasn't anything too awful, was it?" Her eyes linger on him, searching and mildly unhappy for this concept. "Well, yes, eventually," Whitchek accedes, if not precisely happily. His gaze rests on her hands for just a moment, noticing, but--not quite willing to chance that whole contact thing again just yet, maybe. "It wasn't... I mean, it could have been worse, but I wouldn't have wanted one of my sisters there. There were some... off-color jokes." Vague. "And some conversation that was very inappropriate." Also vague. "Enough that I was uncomfortable," he admits, "and if I was..." Madilla's gaze rests on his face at his accession, apparently all too aware of the not-quite-happiness of it. She takes in a breath, and then lets it out, her hands splayed out, now, upon the books. "If you were uncomfortable," she agrees, her gaze lowered towards the table. "Then I'm sure I would have been, too. In which case, I'm glad I wasn't there, and I'm sorry that you had to hear it. Or anyone. /Particularly/ at meal times. The caverns are for everyone, after all." Reaching over, Whitchek risks a little gentle pat on her hand, but then goes back to the safety of busying his own hands with fork and dish and napkin. "So they should be. These Candidates... so many of them are Weyrbred, you know. I suppose they just have no idea. The caverns should be for everyone, but it seems that so many people have no manners..." His shoulders lift in a small shrug. "I would hate to see you... jaded by being confronted by that day in and day out." Contact! Madilla's hand, for a moment, looks like she'd intended to reach her fingers around to squeeze his, though it goes flat again as his hand goes back. Probably for the best: too much contact leads to, you know, badness. "Raised not to think of it," she supposes, in a bland tone. "I suppose it's a /different/ way of looking at things..." Because she tries so hard to find good in everything, of course. "But. Still." Beat. "I've been here two turns," she reminds, quietly. "I /will/ manage. Have managed." "Oh, of course," says Whitchek, and it can't help but come off a bit patronizing because it *is* a bit patronizing, but only in the kindest possible way. "I wonder at how well you've managed. But there's no need to... tempt fate, is there? Or deal with any more discomfort than you must." He pauses, twists his fork around in the dish of stew. "I know I haven't much more to offer you than that, some small comforts. Given... the situation." Conveniently, if Madilla has even noticed that she's being patronized, it doesn't bother her: she merely smiles across at Whitchek. "I suppose not," she agrees. After all, she's been raised to do what she's told, particularly by men. How easy it is to slide back into that. "I am careful to avoid situations I wouldn't... like." Beat. She looks surprised at this last comment, and this time, she initiates the touching, reaching out to rest her hand, just briefly, upon the one that isn't holding the fork. "It's all right," she promises. "I understand. I don't expect... that is to say, it truly is all right." Almost shockingly, this time it's Whitchek's hand that goes to clasp hers as she pulls away. "You deserve some good things," he insists, finally setting down the fork. "Whether you expect them or not, you do. I realize there are some things made impossible at the moment because of the realities of your position, but... is there anything else you want? Some gift, perhaps. Or something I could do for you." Something, perhaps, to solidify his claim, just in case certain other Candidates were to get ideas. Madilla's hand hovers partway there, as though inclined to return, but hesitant to. She appears to decide that the moment has passed, however, because she withdraws it all the way, letting it rest, once more, upon her books. Her cheeks go pink, and her head shakes automatically, though. "I... can't think of anything. I don't know. I'm not used to gifts, or... What kind of thing could you do? Truly, though, it's not necessary, though it's awfully sweet of you to think of it." The simple act of asking seems to have delighted her: she can't seem to stop smiling. Not much help, then. A vague little frown like disappointment, but hard to tell from what exactly. At any rate, it doesn't linger on Whitchek's features long. "You think of something, you tell me, all right? I can't promise you one of the moons, but I would at least make the effort," he assures her, as though she might possibly doubt. "I don't want you to feel like you lack, Madilla, for anything anyone else might have." A grand gesture if applied to things like Lady Holders' wardrobes and the like, but the tone does not give the impression of such material concerns. Madilla looks, in the wake of that, like she'd genuinely like to have come up with something, but she really must be at a loss about it. "I know you would," she assures him, her gaze warm. "And I don't, I truly don't. But if you truly felt like you should... you could think of something, and surprise me? Perhaps one of the other girls around here would know the appropriate kind of thing." A solution! Sort of. "But truly, you're very good to me." Ah! Other girls. This is maybe a more reasonable idea than Whitchek coming up with something, as creativity cannot be said to be his strong suit. But he beams at the last. "I--try. This is all rather new to me. And it's little help to ask anyone else around here. Their relationships all seem to revolve around... well, you know. They don't know anything else. Some of them don't even seem to believe that anything else is possible." Madilla matches the beam with one of her own; it comes with a side of goofy, pleased to the point of almost face-splitting. "To me, too. So we're... even. I hope I'm not... disappointing you, either?" She considers his last with a slow nod of the head, her lips pulling in at the 'you know'. "Some of them are wrong. Surely there's someone, though. There /are/ good relationships around. I don't know. Maybe not." "Oh, there must be," Whitchek says after a moment's thought. "I'm sure they're just... more private people, perhaps. Than the ones I know. And hear about." It takes him a moment to get to that first question, for his voice to soften back to tenderness: "No. No, of course not. This is--you are--exactly what I need, I think. Exactly. No matter what anyone else says, I wouldn't have you any other way." "I suppose the ones that... aren't are just louder," begins Madilla, but she's instantly distracted by his answer to her question. Oh, look: dimples. It must be just about time for an extended quota for touching, because she reaches out both hands this time, evidently intent upon taking, and probably squeezing, his. A little bit forward? Maybe. "Oh, /Whitchek/," is all she can say. Oh, hand-holding. They're just descending into utter license here, probably, but he seems more than willing to accept the gesture now, squeezing hers back--very, *very* gently, no idea how fragile she might be of course. Breaking her would be bad. He couldn't possibly look more proud of himself. Look, he said the right thing. Okay, it was probably an accident, but still the right thing. And for a moment, it's just silence. Then: "It's getting very late. We should both have been in bed long since, I think." Their own beds, of course, but the lovely thing is that with her, he certainly doesn't need to clarify that. Next stop: utter debauchery. Gentle it is, though; despite initiating it, she lets him take the lead. Her hands aren't soft, not with a hard holder life behind her, not to mention these turns of healing, but they're feminine hands, all the same. Before he speaks, she's still utterly enraptured, though the words bring her more or less back to earth. "Oh," she says, though not in a disappointed kind of way, merely a 'goodness, you're right'. "Yes, yes, we should." Which means drawing her hands away, restacking her books. But still watching him, still smiling. Aww. There's a reluctance to the parting even on Whitchek's part--how hard to give up this feeling of *someone* being enraptured with him after the way his days usually go. But still he does, attends to his dishes, returns to linger for a moment. "Do you need help, carrying those back?" he inquires, all distant good manners again, no more of this presumptuous touching. "I'm more than willing." And that only seems to endear him further to Madilla, that reluctance. "Oh, I'm su..." she begins, evidently intending a negative, but then, with a smile: "I'd like that. If you helped me. Just to the dorm." Walking a girl home, carrying her books: much more dignified, not to mention safe, than that touching. "Thank you." Persistence pays off, at last. Whitchek collects up her books, which thankfully gives him something to do with his hands, and shows her back to the dormitory with the promptness due to the hour, but not any *undue* haste. Bids goodnight there, and then it's back to the Candidate quarters for him once again. |
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